


Triad, Pt 1:  Risk

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Series: Triad [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: F/M, Robert Lewis/James Hathaway/Laura Hobson (eventually)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: “Look, Laura...if you’re wanting to have rumpy pumpy with some bloke,” Robbie says more testily than he’d intended, “I’d rather you’d just come out with it—”“You’re not listening,” she interrupts, a bit testy, too.“Idon’t want to have ‘rumpy pumpy’ with some bloke. I wantusto have rumpy pumpy with some bloke.”





	Triad, Pt 1:  Risk

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _Completed for_[ Lewis Summer Challenge 2017. ](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/)  
>   
>  As per the usual contrary muse, I worked on three different stories for this Challenge and, while all seemed nifty in my head, none of them would flow onto the page properly. So with the deadline looming, I’ve had to fall back on something I had already mostly finished. Back in 2014, I started writing [Sweet James](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6689296) for a Lewis Secret Santa exchange and had contrary Muse problems with it. I ended up gifting [The Second Aberration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156932) in its place. (Yes, there is a pattern here.) The feedback that I received on the initial version of _Sweet James_ was that the story needed more set-up for the relationship between Robbie, Laura, and James to be believable, so at some point, I wrote three or four bits and pieces of stories that were intended to flesh out (heh!) how they got together. Then I ran out time on yet another Challenge (pattern!), so I used _Sweet James_ , with extra added relationship stuff. This is the story I originally wrote to set up _Sweet James_ , and it's now the beginning of that series.  
>   
> Since I was running so far behind with this, I sent it very late to my beta. So late that she hasn’t had time to correct it for me. To meet the deadline, I’m posting this un-beta’ed version, with corrections to come as soon as possible. Please forgive the sorry state of it!  
>   
> 

  
  


* * *

  
  


> So you see what we can do  
>  If we try something new; that is, if you're crazy, too.  
>  And I don't really see why can't we go on as three.  
>                                          ~Triad, _David Crosby_

 

> The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud  
>  was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.  
>                                          _~Anais Nin (not sourced)_

 

  
  


“Robbie… Have you ever thought about having a threesome?”

Since neither he nor Laura has spoken for at least 30 minutes, the question seems a bit abrupt to Robbie. And that’s not even considering the oddness of the subject matter. Still, he’s not so much startled as intrigued. And, to be honest, glad of the interruption. He’s waited weeks for just such a lazy Sunday evening—the first one in a long while that hasn’t been interrupted by a call-out for one or both of them—to read the newest mystery thriller by a favourite author, but the book isn’t living up to his anticipation. He'd figured out whodunit before the end of the second chapter, and the leading character is a prat who’s probably supposed to come off cheeky and daring, but just seems annoying and thick. He places a finger on the page of the book, though he’s not all that careful about where, and looks up.

Laura’s sat where she has been for more than an hour now, at a right angle to him, back propped against a pile of cushions, with her bare feet on the couch between them. Her knees are up, and she has the edge of a large book resting on her belly, propped open on her thighs. And she’s waiting patiently for him to respond, head tilted to one side in that way she has. 

“Where did that come from?” he asks. “Not that I mind the interruption. This is rubbish.” He lays the book aside. 

Laura shrugs and takes a sip of wine. “Nowhere in particular. I just wondered.” 

“Hmmm.” Robbie narrows his eyes and peers at her. And here he thought she was just listening to the music—one of his albums of 70s tunes—that’s playing softly in the background. Though he can’t remember her turning a page for some time now, he reaches over and tilts her book so he can read the cover, half expecting to find some racy romance novel or a text on sex practices or some such. But it’s what passes for light reading, he supposes, for Laura—a forensics text. 

“So, have you?” she asks, looking down into the her nearly empty wine glass. She seems relaxed and casual and maybe a bit playful, but almost studiedly so, which makes him think the question isn’t casual at all. 

“No,” he says automatically. But when she abandons her scrutiny of the depths of the glass and turns her gaze on him, he amends, “Well, yeah. I mean, what bloke hasn’t? Thought about it in a general sort of way, I mean.” 

“A general sort of way?” she muses. “As opposed to what other sort of way?” 

“Well, like...if it was one of me favourite fantasies. That sort of way.” 

“Ah.” She leans, the pile of cushions behind her tipping precariously, and snags the bottle of wine off the coffee table. She refills her glass, then offers the bottle to him. 

He shakes his head. The bottle’s in one of those clay cooling things, like a flower pot for wine, with a towel wrapped around it. Laura likes her white wine really cold, hence the clay pot evaporating thingy, but he thinks wine tastes metallic that way. His glass is sitting at his elbow, still mostly full and only just, in his opinion, warming up to the right temperature for drinking. 

Truth be told, he’d really rather have red. But after a relaxed day of not very pressing errands, a stop for a leisurely pub lunch, a stroll along the Cherwell, and a couple of hours puttering in the garden, he’d been happy to get into his pyjamas early and collapse on the couch with his book. When Laura had brought in the white, the trip to the kitchen for a different bottle had seemed like it would take more energy than it was worth. He sips at his cool rather than cold wine and waits for her to ask the next obvious question…about his favourite fantasies, because he’s unthinkingly given her the perfect opening. But that’s not the question she asks at all. 

“Have you ever had a threesome?” 

He snorts. “Do I look the sort who could entice two women into me bed at once?” 

Laura smiles at him and shakes her head. “Robbie, sweetheart, I think you underestimate your powers of persuasion. _And_ your sex appeal. I think you could have a bed full of women if you wanted, one at a time or all at once.” 

“Give over.” She’s taking the mickey, of course, her eyes sparkling a wicked blue over the rim of the glass and her mouth turning up in an impish smile, but the compliment gives him a light buzz of pleasure just the same, and his face flushes warm. He doesn’t believe it for a minute, but it’s nice to pretend she might mean it. Not that he would know what to do with a ‘bed full of women’. He barely negotiates his way around with just the one. 

When she doesn’t say anything else, he reaches for his book. But he reads the same paragraph three times before he gives up and just stares at the page, the black type blurring into grey smudges. He’s too distracted to read now, his mind flitting about, pinging the inside his skull with questions and images he’d never have imagined on his own— _Laura and another woman, faceless but blonde like her, taller, touching him, kissing him. Two soft, naked bodies pressing against him, two—._

As if she’s got a pipeline right into his head, she interrupts, “But I wasn’t thinking of another woman.” That studied lightness is back in her voice. “I was thinking of another man.” 

And that brings his fantasy to a screeching halt. “Give over,” he says again. He shifts his thumb to mark the paragraph he’d been reading and re-reading and looks over at her, expecting her grin to be even wider. 

The lights are low except for the lamp behind his shoulder, positioned so that the circle of warm light falls evenly on the pages of the book, and he hopes that means his face is partially in shadow because he knows he’s blushing like a lad wet behind the ears. 

She doesn’t respond. She just watches him carefully, scrutinizing his reaction. 

The heat in his face rises a couple of degrees. He resists the urge to tug at the neck of his pyjama shirt. “You’re having me on!” He’s so surprised he sputters, peppering the pages of his book with saliva. He starts to close it, then thinks he’d be better to leave it to dry out. He twists to place it, carefully open, on the table beside him, then turns back to face her. 

She’s pushed herself back a little so that she’s sitting up straighter. She looks like she’s serious. Except for that crystalline sparkle in her gaze, and the way her soft, full lips are slightly parted, like she’s just seconds away from licking them. And the way she slowly raises one eyebrow, as if she’s daring him. 

So it’s probably just sexy banter, something at which she excels. He takes a deep breath, and the slow thud that had started to build in his chest eases. “You’re teasing, right, like the other night down the pub?” he asks, trying—and failing—to sound as casual as she has. “You’re not…serious?”

She shrugs, still in that offhand way, but there’s a careful watchfulness humming underneath it. Like she’s waiting, watching, gauging whether to laugh and admit she’s taking the piss out of him or to forge ahead. “The idea,” she says finally, “has...possibilities. Don’t you think?” 

Refusing to allow himself to react with a kneejerk, he thinks for a minute. Until Laura came along, he’s been something of a sexual traditionalist. Contentedly so. On more than one occasion, Morse had even laughingly called him of being a prude, and...well...Morse hadn’t been that far off the mark, had he? Missionary position, lights low, clothing often just pushed aside rather than completely off. Part of it had to do with having kids in the house for so many years. But, really, even before the kids, racy stuff like oral sex and woman on top were rarities, saved for special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. He’s never been the adventurous type. 

Laura’s adventurousness has changed that. A bit. Especially her talent for waking him on a carefree Saturday morning with her mouth. 

And he could see how, maybe, after a couple of drinks to loosen him up, she might change his mind about another woman. In a fantasy sense, anyway. The image had slid into his head as easy as could be, like it was oiled and lined up in advance. So obviously, as fantasies go, the idea has merit. But it’s more a sort of soft focus, grainy, unlikely fantasy—soft bodies pressing into his, soft hands touching him. But then, most of his fantasies are soft focus and unlikely. The actual staging of how something like that that would work…he’s not sure. Actually _doing_ it...that’s the stretch. 

But with another _man_? If the idea of another woman in bed with them is a stretch, the idea of another man is downright… _alien_. He’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking his head. Just about building up to telling her that, no, he doesn’t think the idea has possibilities, when a thought intrudes... 

Maybe there’s a more specific reason for her question. Maybe there’s a man she’s interested in? Maybe there’s a man she wants, and this is her way of finding out if it would be okay for her to act on it. 

They haven’t specifically _agreed_ they’re exclusive. They haven’t talked about their relationship much at all really. It’s just sort of...run along from one thing to the next. From talking at work to talking over drinks, to dinners and concerts, to a couple of what he would term ‘real dates’. To holding hands to careful kisses to less careful kisses to sex. Stay-overs to long weekends to, finally, living together. And it doesn’t really seem like they discussed it much at all, save for whether he’d have dinner waiting and how they’d handle finances. And even that discussion was effortless and lowkey…everything house-wise and couple-wise split down the middle and everything personal—such as clothing purchases, nights out at the pub, trips up to Manchester to see Lyn, Laura’s appointments at the day spa—paid for by the one doing it. They’d just…slipped into it all. It’s been easy and agreeable, as it should be at this stage in his life. And he’s assumed, because he’s a traditionalist in more ways than one, that because they’re living together, they’re exclusive. But now that he thinks about it, they’ve never specifically _said_ so. 

“Did you have someone in mind?” This time, he thinks he does a pretty decent job of keeping his tone casual and easy. 

Her eyes narrow a bit. “Does that mean you’d consider it?” she counters. 

Annoyance washes over him. This tap dancing around what he suspects she’s really trying to say…it’s setting his teeth on edge. If she wants to shag another bloke— He has to stop and consider that. He’s not sure how that makes him feel. 

Jealous? Maybe. 

He considers it. Jealous, definitely. 

It makes him feel a little jealous. And a little cheated upon, if only in thought. It makes him feel...maybe a little inadequate. 

No, he’s not sexually adventurous. No, he’s not a dynamo in bed. But he’s no slouch, either. He’s been willing to open up a bit and follow along on anything she’s wanted. He’s learned to sleep nude (occasionally), and to leave the lights on during sex, and he’s been willing to play any sexy game she suggests. And the idea that maybe that’s not enough... Well, that’s sobering. And it twinges. Not in his heart exactly. Maybe in a tight, dark place just below his heart. And a bit down lower in his gut.

But it’s not like he ever put himself out to be a bold, grand, romantic lover, so mostly, it’s just annoying that she’s playing a word game about it. He’d rather she’d just say what she wants, outright. “Look, Laura...if you’re wanting to have rumpy pumpy with some bloke,” he says, more testily than he’d intended, “I’d rather you’d just come out with it—” 

“You’re not listening,” she interrupts, a bit testy, too. “I’m not teasing. And it’s not like that night at the pub. And _I_ don’t want to have 'rumpy pumpy' with some bloke. I want _us_ to have rumpy pumpy with some bloke.” 

His lungs deflate with a loud whoosh. His heart gives a great thump, and then a handful of quick, hard beats. If she’d taken that heavy forensics book, with its illustrations of exposed muscles and mangled body parts, and whacked him over the head with it without any warning, he wouldn’t have been any more shocked. So much for fantasy scenarios. And tap dancing around the subject. 

He sucks in a huge breath, enough air to fill his lungs. That twinge from earlier moves up and catches him right behind the breastbone. Sharply. And so it takes him a minute to make sure his breath is steady enough to keep his voice calm and neutral. “Laura...I’m straight, me. I don’t—”

“It’s James,” she says immediately. “The man I had in mind is James.” 

Robbie’s heart does another little stutter, and a flash of heat that he doesn’t understand washes up his back. And he suddenly can’t look at her. “You want to...?” His voice comes out a croak and he has to clear his throat and start over. “You want to have sex with James?” James! _His_ James?

“I want _us_ to have sex with James,” she says clearly, evenly. And she straightens her legs and tucks her bare feet under his thigh and wiggles her toes. Her skin is so cool he can feel it through the thin cotton of his pyjama pants. “I want…a lot more than just that with James. And I think you do, too.” 

“But I’m straight,” he says again, still not quite able to wrap his mind around the fact that she’s talking about James. 

“Robbie...” She leans over and puts her hand on his forearm. 

Either her fingers are really cold, or his skin is really hot. He shivers. “Have you talked to James about this?” 

“No. But I don’t have to. He wants you as much as you want him.” 

“I don’t want James!” The words explode out of him like they were lying there, trapped and knotted, at the bottom of his lungs. Where did she get that idea?! What’s he done to make her think such a thing? James is... James is... He struggles for the right word. The concept. “James is me mate. Me best mate. I like his company. I _enjoy_ his company, more than…most anybody. And there’s nobody I’d rather work with. And I…” He has to pause, to gather spit and the courage to say it, because men don’t say stuff like this, but she needs to understand. And it’s true, even if he’s rarely thought it and never before wanted to say it aloud. “I _care_ about James. I don't want to ever think about him not being around. But I don’t... I don’t think about him like _that_.” And then he takes a deep breath and looks away, because that last, it feels—it’s daft, but it doesn’t _feel_ honest, even though it is. 

“Are you kidding me?” She rolls her eyes. She lets go of his arm and drops back against the cushions. “The two of you have your hands all over each other all the time.” 

His hands open and close on his thighs, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with them. “We do not,” he protests, but even he can hear that it’s weak. Because he and James… Well, they do make contact a bit more than other blokes. Always have. But it just seems…natural. It’s not sexual. Is it? And he has sometimes thought things… Wondered... Well, that’s just… that’s just the normal, passing thoughts that everyone has about someone they’re close to. It’s not— It’s not… _real_. 

He shakes his head at himself, at his own thoughts, irritated that with just a few questions, Laura has done what all the sly comments and sideways glances of acquaintances and co-workers through the years have never been able to do—make him question his relationship with James. “Where’re you getting this? Where’s this coming from?” 

“Robbie...” She sighs. “Maybe I’m exaggerating the hands part. But you’re all over each other all the time. The two of you sit closer together than you and I do. You practically walk in the same space. And last weekend, when you and he were working on the flower bed, I came out, and you were hugging. And that’s just the physical part.” 

“We weren’t hugging! I was just leaning on him. I was tired and...” Robbie’s voice dies away as he realizes what he’s saying. As he realizes that he knew exactly what she was talking about without her having to explain it any further. He’s damned himself by revealing how near and dear the memory is. 

Even now, it tugs at something in his gut. It was one of those perfect moments. Not a big moment, like a birth or a death. Not a news flash kind of moment, or a really nasty, difficult case-finally-solved kind of moment. Just a small, quiet moment, warm and sweet, frozen in time, alive in his memory. It wasn’t about anything other than just...the sun and the day and birds singing. And the way he’d felt—warm and happy and satisfied. And the way the day had felt—small and simple and perfect. 

They’d spent all morning weeding and digging out a flower bed, talking in snatches about whatever came into their minds, about everything and nothing in particular. In between bouts of conversation, James had hummed under his breath, in that smoke-ruined yet still somehow compelling voice of his, some soft ballad that Robbie suspected might be one of James’s own compositions. After a break for a sandwich and a beer, they’d worked all afternoon replanting the bed with spring flowers, working side by side without the need for words. 

And the moment Laura is talking about was after they’d finished. They’d been standing back to see if they’d left any bare places, if they needed to shift any of the colours. Robbie had been tired and sweaty, covered in dirt. And James had bumped Robbie’s shoulder with his shoulder and smiled at him. Not the usual self-mocking, quick upturn of lips that could be either a grin or a grimace. A rare smile for James, open and contented and easy. As if the day had felt small and simple and perfect to him, too, and he was greatly pleased with what they’d accomplished. 

Robbie had understood perfectly. He’d felt the same way, happily tired, filled with satisfaction and a joy that simmered to the same tune as the one James had been humming earlier. When James had looped his arm up, draping his forearm companionably across Robbie’s shoulder, Robbie had slid his arm around James’s back and rested his hand on James’s narrow waist, balancing as he yawned and stretched until his back cracked. And, after, it had felt so right to stay where he was. To just lean into James and rest. To stand there, quiet and peaceful, admiring what they’d made together. 

Robbie can’t say he wasn’t aware of James physically at that moment. There was an awareness, in the back of his mind, of James’s body. Of how good James felt, lean and strong against him. Of how he smelled, masculine and sweaty, faintly of cigarettes and dirt. 

He’s always been aware, in a non-thinking, peripheral sort of way, of how good James feels next to him. Walking, sitting, touching. Just being. There’s always been a warm, constant buzz of...what? Contentment. Warmth. An ease that he’s felt with very few people in his life. But attraction? He shakes his head. Surely not attraction. Just friendship. Just…comfort. 

Except...he’s never had a male friend with whom he was so comfortable physically. He’s never had a male friend, other than James, whose touch was so welcome. Whose mere presence made him feel so safe, so warm. Whose touch... He almost pushes the thought away for fear of what it means. But he forces himself to be honest. He’s never had a male friend, and few females friends, whose touch he enjoyed so much. That day would have been wonderful, if all they’d done was sit on the deck and have a beer after all their hard work. But what had capped its perfection was standing there against James. Feeling his warmth and strength. Feeling James’s arm slip around him, James’s hand squeeze his shoulder gently. 

Robbie takes a deep breath. It comes back out ragged and uneven. That little shiver runs over him again. And he’d cut his wrists before he’d admit it just now, but his cock stirs. Tingles just a bit. It’s anticipation, more than excitement. Realization, more than arousal. It’s just...the possibility. 

Because he has to admit that Laura’s right. The idea does have possibilities. And he’s gobsmacked. Shocked to the core of his supposedly straight soul. James and him…that’s never been a stretch. Robbie’s not sure when it happened, but at some point, the idea of James in his life had become as much a part of him as his heart or his hands or his thinning hairline. After some point, the idea of a future without James in it wasn’t even a consideration. James just was. 

But James _with_ him? James with them? The idea is making him hard. His heart thumps with the speed and snap of a street performer banging on a bongo drum. Thick, hot blood pools into his groin. _James and Laura and him. Together. In the same bed. Naked. Smooth skin. Blond hair. Limbs entangled. James waking him the way Laura does… James’s striking eyes staring into his…_

Robbie sucks in a ragged breath. 

Laura’s been patient. Sitting quietly, sipping her wine, letting him work through it, but the minute comprehension dawns on his face, she says gently, “Robbie...it’s _James_. Does it really matter which body parts he has?” 

He looks at her. Stricken. Shocked. Aroused. 

And she laughs, low and soft, deep in his throat. Sets her glass aside. She grips his forearm again and pulls herself up onto her knees. Crawls over his lap until she’s astride him. Wraps her arms around his neck. 

She’s warm. _So_ warm as she settles herself against his cock. Her nipples are so hard he can feel them through their shirts. His are hard, too. Just not enough to make an impression through two layers of cotton. 

She kisses him, hot and nasty, her tongue slithering into his mouth, duelling with his tongue. She kisses and licks a path across his cheek and bites his earlobe. “So...it’s a better idea than you initially thought,” she whispers. 

He groans. Slides his hands down into her pyjama pants and grips her bare arse. Pushes down on her and arches his hips up so he can grind against her. 

“Do you think he would?” he asks breathlessly. He doesn’t know where the words come from. He doesn’t know how he moved so swiftly from _‘I don’t want James!’_ to images of James’s long, bare legs tangled with his own. He doesn’t know when the risk of thinking such things became less important than imagining how warm James’s smooth skin will be. How his voice will go all low and husky as they touch him. 

He already knows how James’s voice will sound, all sex and velvet, saying his name. He’s already heard it, all those years ago in the nick’s sound lab, when James was pretending to have phone sex. _‘My friend Robbie recommended you…’_ Had the same silvery tingle shivered down his spine when James’s voice caressed his name, even back then? Has he been blind and stupid to something that’s been there all along? 

Laura backs away from him and looks at him like he’s a bit daft. 

She’s gorgeous. Flushed and bright-eyed with arousal. “Honestly, Robbie, are you blind? Have you seen the way he looks at you? Don’t you know how he feels about you?” 

He shakes his head. 

“If one of you was a woman, you’d have been fucking each other’s brain out years ago.” 

“Classy, you,” he teases. But his voice is a bit breathless, and his heartbeat has turned from the soft rhythm of Caribbean bongos to Wagner at top volume. And he’s having a difficult time getting a good, deep breath to slow it down. 

She leans in and nips his earlobe again, twisting it like she’s going to take a bite out of him. Just the way he likes it. 

He gasps. Reaches between them to tug at the tied strings of her pyjamas. 

“You didn’t answer me,” she breathes into his ear. “Is it a good idea?” 

It’s a grand idea. Considering his cock’s trying to rip through his pyjamas to get to her, there’s no point in denying it. But...is it really any more than an idea? Would he really do it? Would he really want to go to bed with Laura and James? Watch James put his hands on Laura? Watch her put her hands on James? And the other way round...his hands on James? James’s hands on him?

His cock jumps so hard she feels it, and she laughs and wriggles against him. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” 

“Yeah,” he says thickly. He’s managed to get her pyjamas undone, but with the way she’s sitting, straddling his thighs, he can only get them a few inches down her hips. 

She raises up to help him, sliding her knees forward, and the waistband of her pyjamas slips a bit lower. He shoves it out of the way. He slips his fingers between her legs. She’s wet and slick. And so hot. Ready for him. How long has she been sitting over there, pretending to read but thinking about this? About them? 

“About you and James? For a long time,” she whispers. “Even before there was you and me.” 

He starts. He wasn’t even aware he’d said it aloud. 

“You’re both so bloody gorgeous. And so bloody different, but so amazing together. Thinking about the two of you shagging has been one of my favourite fantasies for a long time.” She breathes the words, drips them, like warm honey, into his ear. “But about the three of us? Since the day I saw the two of you in the garden.” She rolls her hips against him, that graceful elliptical movement that makes him crazy. 

He fumbles for the snaps on his pyjamas. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” she murmurs. “The way the two of you looked...it was so sexy. I just stood there, staring, praying that you would kiss him. That he would kiss you back. I wanted to see him touch you, all over. I wanted…” Her words are muffled as she kisses him, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

And he remembers it now. She was all over him that night, after James left. Even before he had a chance to clean up. He’d been dirty and worn out, but she’d been so sexy and feverish that he’d forgotten all about how tired and sore he was. They'd made a right mess of the clean sheets. And now he knows what set her off. 

He groans. Tears his mouth away from hers just so he can breathe. He’s already so hard his cock is interfering with his efforts to get his pyjamas out of the way. And the way she’s moving is shoving his hand so that he’s stroking himself, grinding his own palm down the length of his cock, making him harder. “Bloody hell...” He grabs her, holds her still long enough to pop the snap open, to yank the edges apart. 

She raises higher as he frees his cock, craning to watch him stroke himself. Hums a tight, low sound of approval. She has a thing for watching him touch himself. It makes him self-conscious, and at the same time, having her gaze locked on him is like being stroked by a second pair of hands. It always makes him breathless and harder and hotter. But he’s too far along to play that game today. If his arousal winds any tighter, he’s going to lose control. 

He grips her hip, presses down. 

She resists, leaning down to press her lips to his ear again. “Tell me. Tell me you’d like James’s hands on you.” 

And the image he sees is what he imagines she just saw. James’s hand, wrapped around his cock in place of his own. The idea is so arousing, yet so foreign... So beyond the scope of what seems possible. Of anything he’s ever considered. And he knows she’s just playing a game. A sexy word game. A burning hot fantasy game. 

But it’s more real than she realizes. In his head, it’s too real. And he gasps, “Do you think he would?” 

She hums again, soft laughter and approbation. A hot, sultry understanding. She slips lower, hot, wet centre just barely touching the tip of his cock, hesitating while he adjusts himself against her. And she waits, resisting as he grips her hip harder and urges her down. She’s hangs, poised, teasing. Teasing. Rocking against him but not settling down. “I think,” she whispers against his ear, “that James would fuck you into the mattress if you crooked your finger at him.” 

Robbie gasps. Has to consciously relax his grasp on her hips because he’s afraid his fingers are biting into her soft flesh hard enough to bruise. 

“I think...” she murmurs, “we’d put you between us, him in you and you in me, and we’d make you beg. We’d make you scream.” 

The image is a lightning bolt. It blinds him. It sears his mind, his nerves. Every muscle contracts like he’s touched a live wire. He shifts and fumbles. Shifts again. She moans, frustrated, and moves her hips. And he holds her still and thrusts up into her. So hard and fast she gasps. 

He freezes, afraid he’s been too rough, too quick, but she’s wet and slick inside, as hot and ready for him as he is for her. She rocks her hips down to meet him. Lifts back up and drops back down on him again, even harder than he dared thrust into her. 

He grabs her, one hand on her arse, the other on her hip and moves her on him. Hard and fast. Her fingers bite into his shoulders and she throws her head back. Shifts so that he can lift her even higher. So that there’s even more of a long, slick, smooth slide back into her. 

It’s one of the things he loves about making love to her, that she’s so tiny he can move her. So secure that, sometimes, she gives up all control, follows every hint of guidance from his hands. It makes him feel strong and masculine. But she’s strong, too. So strong and sure and so much of a match for him that he’s learned it’s okay to be a little rough with her when the occasion calls for it. And she’s sure as hell not afraid to be rough with him. She hisses, a long, drawn out “Yessssss.” Whispers, “Harder, Robbie,” and rocks forward to bite his shoulder. Hard. 

He’s barely able to hear her. The roaring in his ears that precedes orgasm has started. She’s so hot inside. Swollen and soft but her muscles clench and tighten, gripping him. And he hasn’t been able to get her pyjamas very far down, so he’s thrusting into her, rubbing against her, but the elastic of her pyjamas is chafing against his cock, too. It’s rough and abrasive compared to her soft, slick skin, dragging at his foreskin, rubbing that sensitive spot along the underside of his cock with every stroke. 

And what she said, about him sandwiched between her and James is tantalizing. Staggering. The idea of doing _that_ , of James doing _that_ to him. He’s never done anything like that. His body is responding to the idea even though he can’t quite picture it. He can’t quite imagine how it would feel. 

But he can imagine seeing James slide into her. Seeing her wrap her arms and her legs around James’s strong, slender body. _The two of them, pale and blond, moving against each other, making love. And they turn and look at him, lying beside them. He’s touching himself. And it’s not just Laura’s gaze on him, avid and greedy, watching his hand move on his cock. It’s James’s gaze, too. James watching him. Him watching them..._

And, suddenly, he _can_ see it. The other image. Like he’s a peeping tom. Some nasty voyeur. _Him sliding into Laura. And James behind him. On top of him. Lean, strong body hot against his back and his thighs. Hard cock probing at him, seeking entrance. And he’s watching, but he’s also feeling, and he’s afraid it’s going to hurt but so sure it’s going to feel good that he’s willing to risk the pain. So good. Both of them. Holding him. Loving him. Fucking him._

And he gasps. Arches up hard. Because he’s there. He’s there, and he can’t hold back. But Laura hasn’t come yet. And he needs to hold back, but he can’t. “Laura!” he gasps. “God, Laura, I can’t—”

“Tell me,” she whispers, breath hot against his ear. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He shakes his head. Fingers digging into her to slow her movements. He can’t. Can’t say those things out loud. Can’t hold on. Won’t be able to, if he thinks about it again. _James’s hands on him. His hands on James…_

“Tell me!” Her whisper is urgent. A command. 

He shakes his head again, but he answers. Like his voice is ignoring him, obeying her. “What you said... James and you... Me. In the middle—” 

She shudders against him. “Oh, god, Robbie... That’s so hot. James fucking you... You’re trying to hold yourself off me, but you’re crushing me. And I don’t care, because every time he shoves into you, it shoves you into me. ” 

He groans, tries to hold her still. Her voice is like fingernails scraping over his skin. The idea... the image... He doesn’t know how she’s still able to form coherent sentences. How she’s able to draw enough breath into her lungs to even speak. He’s gasping, but it feels like there’s no air left in the room. If she moves once more, whispers one more word, he’ll shatter. 

She kisses him, hard and rough, and whispers into his mouth, “It’s like he’s fucking us both, at the same time.” Her eyes meet his and her pupils are blown, almost black with arousal. Her chest is flushed, pink pre-orgasmic blush peeking above the collar of her pyjamas, crawling up her throat. 

And he can’t stop himself. Can’t hold back another second. He moves, hard and fast, shoving himself up into her. “God, Laura, I can’t hold it—”

Go,” she rasps. “Now.” 

“No, with you.” He arches back, curve of his spine following the curve of the couch, and holds himself rigid even though he wants to thrust and thrust and thrust. Forces himself to stillness so that she can move herself on him. Do what she needs to do to come with him. 

Her fingers scrape across the back of his neck, and she tilts her hips. Grinds against him. And he feels that first clench of her body around him. Deep inside. “Now, Robbie! Now.” She keens, high and sweet. Laura’s orgasm sound. She’s coming. All burning hot and wet around him. The soft feminine flesh of her puffing up, all swollen and mushy soft, but muscles clenching him at the same time. 

She growls, “For god’s sake, Robbie, move!” 

He shifts into motion. Thrusts up into her again and again as she clings to him and shudders through her orgasm. And another. She keens with pleasure. He’s never been with a woman so vocal, who sounds like that during sex. And it never fails to shove him over the edge.

He lets go and comes with a shout. Spilling himself into her. Pleasure, white hot, rolling through him. Hot, sharp, and good. Clamping down on him. Pulsing through him. Muscles clamping down, nerves firing. So good. Christ, so good. Sensation racing through his whole body, expanding and contracting, expanding. Then throbbing with slowly decreasing pulses, slowing. Easing, until he slumps back, spent and boneless. 

Laura keeps moving on him, slowly, humming a soft, satisfied note, until he softens and slips out of her. She sighs with disappointment and pitches forward against him. Rests her face against his. 

He slides his hands up under her shirt and strokes her back. She feels as warm and boneless outside as he does inside. 

She nuzzles his ear and whispers, “You are a marvellous man.” 

He grunts and tries to come up with an equal compliment for her, but his brain is too muzzy for thoughts. He can think of ‘good’ and ‘god’ and ‘melting’, but his mind isn’t quite fitting words together like it should. “You...” he mumbles, hoping that he’ll come up with something by the time he gets to the end of the sentence, “...are—”

There’s a squeak. The sound of the back door swinging open. And James’s voice, calling, “Hello? Robbie! Laura?” 

Laura squeaks, too. A sound less metallic than the hinge on the door and a lot more surprised. She bolts into movement. Leaps off Robbie as she calls out, “We’re in here, James.” Her voice sounds so breezy and normal. 

She grabs the towel that’s been wrapped around her wine bottle and flings it into Robbie’s crotch. It’s as cold as ice, and he has to bite his lips to keep from cursing. His muscles respond so violently that it jerks him half off the couch. 

She laughs at him, silently, teasing as she swipes the cold towel over his cock and belly. 

His muscles clamp down and his balls try to climb back up into his body. A twinge of pain shoots across his thighs, and he hisses at her and shoves her hand away. 

“Wuss,” she whispers, then she turns the cloth on herself, and the laughter becomes a grimace. “Damn, that’s cold!” 

He can’t think of an appropriate comeback. He’s too sure that when he glances back, he’s going to see James staring at them, his mouth open with shock. 

Laura laughs as she drops the cloth on the floor, kicks it under the couch, drags her pyjamas up and ties them. Drops back down on the her end of the couch and motions furiously for him to fix up his clothes. 

“I knocked,” James calls. 

Robbie’s all thumbs as he drags his pyjamas up around his waist and fumbles the snap closed. Yanks his shirt down so hard it tugs on his shoulders. Hopefully it’s low enough to cover the wet stain on his pyjamas and the way they’re twisted around his hips. Now if he just had something to cover the evidence he’s sure is visible on his face, he’d be okay. 

It feels like it’s taken ten minutes, but it’s all been accomplished in only the time it’s taken James to come through from the kitchen. He stops in the doorway and peeks into the living room. “The new plants on the patio look nice,” he says, then, “Did you know your door was open?” 

Laura twists and smiles at him over the back of the couch. “We must have forgotten to lock it,” she says easily. 

“I just brought these forms by for you,” he says to Robbie, holding up a couple of file folders. “They still need your signature, and I thought maybe you’d like to go over...” His voice dies away as he looks back and forth between them. 

Robbie can’t look at him. He’s suddenly suffused with guilt, with horror, at what they’ve done. Saying all those things. Thinking all those things. Having a sex fantasy about James while they— He’s sure that once James’s sees his face, James is going to be able to read every nasty thought Robbie’s just had. 

Robbie glances at his reflection in the mirror across the room. He can only see the back of Laura’s head, but he can tell that her hair is ruffled, damp and curling where it’s touching her neck. His hair is mussed, too, and he has to force his hands to stay put. Not to rise up and smooth the wild strands into place. His face is flushed. His eyes are still a little wild. He’s too far away from the mirror to tell, but he’s sure his forehead is shiny with sweat. 

Physically, it’s not really too telltale. It could be interpreted as the room being a little warm, which it is. But he wonders if James can smell the slight musk of sweat and semen and the delicious female scent of Laura on his skin. Whether James can look at him and sense the thoughts Robbie was having about him. 

And if James can...what would his reaction be? 

As Robbie gives in and reaches up to smooth his hair, James gestures back over his shoulder with the files. “I’ll just leave them on the table.” He starts to turn away. 

“Come have a glass of wine,” Laura says. Her voice is warm and welcoming, but the look she shoots at Robbie is evil and hot. 

Robbie’s stomach ripples. He grabs his now lukewarm wine and drains half the glass with one gulp. 

James mumbles, “No, thanks. I’m interrupting.” He has that look on his face, the one he gets sometimes when he sees them kissing or hugging. 

Until now, Robbie’s only seen the mixture of shy pleasure and the patented James smirk, the tiny bit of priestly embarrassment. But now he sees—or maybe he just imagines he sees—that there’s envy in James’s expression, too. And longing. As if James doesn’t want to turn away. 

But maybe that’s just what Robbie wants to see. 

“Don’t be silly.” Laura stands up. “Get a glass while I grab a robe.” 

When James still isn’t convinced, she says playfully, cajoling, “I think we have some of that cheese you like. And we’ll let you choose the music...” And she strolls away, hips swaying, towards their bedroom. 

James cocks his head and listens for a moment. “I like this music,” he says. “But if you’re sure I’m not intruding, a little wine wouldn’t go amiss. I’m just out of a meeting with Innocent.” 

Robbie finally finds his voice. “On a Sunday?” His tone is a bit rough, but he injects just the right amount of sympathy and interest. 

James relaxes and takes a tentative step into the room. 

It’ll save wear and tear on his heart if James goes, because the risk of giving himself away if James stays is making Robbie’s heart thump like a bass drum down deep in a well. But he motions for James to come in as if the day is still just a lazy, carefree Sunday evening with a rubbish book. “’Course we’re sure, man. Grab a glass.” 

He leans over and holds up the bottle of wine up to the light. There’s not enough left for each of them to have a decent glass. He may not be sure James staying is a good idea, but Robbie’s sure he’s going to need more than a couple fingers of wine to get past what he and Laura have just done and back to normal. “Grab another bottle while you’re in there.” 

When he settles back down, his pyjamas settle against him, and they’re wet and cold and sticky. He grimaces. Wonders if there’s any way he can gracefully slip away to the bedroom to change. 

Laura comes back into the room before James, who’s rattling around in the kitchen, digging in the utensil drawer. “The corkscrew’s in here, James.” 

She’s wearing, not the thick fluffy robe that she usually wears to laze around the house, but a pink silk one that’s casually untied. And she’s changed her ratty t-shirt for a flimsy soft thing with a lacy edge that lays just across the rise of her breasts. She’s still in pyjamas and robe, but it’s like she’s upped the ante a bit. 

Robbie raises his eyebrows at her. 

She ignores his questioning expression. She grabs the corkscrew from the coffee table, and she points at Robbie’s groin. Makes a little circle in the air with her finger, like she’s outlining the clammy, sticky circle that’s evident across his pyjamas. Jerks her thumb up towards the hallway. Says in a furious whisper, “Go change!” 

Then without checking to see whether he obeys, she heads into the kitchen, saying, “How about some strawberries with that cheese? Or would you rather have apple slices?” 

James murmurs something in response. 

Robbie hurries up the stairs to their bathroom and cleans up as quickly as he can. Wipes with some of Laura's wet wipes. It makes him smell like lavender and mint, or some such, but it’s better (or less telltale, anyway) than sweat and semen. 

He hesitates over what to change into. Before their discussion, he’d have thought nothing of sitting on the couch with James and Laura in his pyjamas, but now... He’d feel better in jeans and a shirt. Sort of more armoured, like. But that much of a change might seem odd. And he doesn’t want to seem odd. Any odder than he already feels, considering that he’s seen James in a new light. Considering that he’s standing there, trying to decide what to wear like a schoolgirl getting ready for a first date. 

With a sound of disgust, he reaches into his pyjama drawer and grabs a pair of pyjamas that are nearly the same colour as the ones he’s just stuffed into the laundry bin. 

He’s just being daft. It’s not the first time Laura’s egged him on with some fantasy thing to spice up their sex life. He flushes as he thinks of her talking dirty to him in the pub just a fortnight ago. She’d sat across from him, prim and demure, but the things she’d whispered about what she was going to do to him at home had been nearly unrepeatable. And all without breaking that sweet, angelic smile... He’d had to carry his coat in front of his groin just to get out the door without embarrassing himself. And he’d been so wound up they’d come close to having sex in the car. 

A couple of months ago, she’d sweet-talked him into letting her use his favourite tie to bind his hands to the headboard, and then proceeded to spend an hour teasing him unmercifully before making him come so hard he thought he’d lose consciousness. And then she’d teased and enticed him with even more erotic promises into wearing the tie to work the next day . 

He shakes his head abruptly to chase away the memory. He can’t keep thinking about those things, or he won’t be able to go back into the living room without embarrassing himself. 

Suffice to say, she’s not the traditionalist he is. Was. Because every time she comes up with some new, spicy thing, he gets a little farther from that backward, awkward-in-bed bloke who thought blowjobs were for special occasions. 

But it’s all just games and fantasy, isn’t it? It’s all just for the sake of spicing things up a bit. And that whole scenario she just laid out was just a game, too. She sure didn’t want James to know they been having a bit of rumpy pumpy. If she’d been serious, wouldn’t she have wanted James to know what they’d been doing? 

He sighs. He’s not sure whether she was play-acting or whether she was serious. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t know side of the fence he’d prefer to come down on either. What just happened...it was mind-blowingly sexy. But in real life...maybe not so much. Probably not. _Definitely_ not. 

Laura was just playing a game, and _he_ was just playing a game. And it was rude, but...so long as James doesn’t suspect, there’s no harm, no foul. No risk. Right? 

Just to be safe, Robbie puts his robe on over the clean pyjamas, which aren’t quite a match to the ones he was wearing. James didn’t come very far into the room, so he probably didn’t get a good look. And how much attention would James have paid, anyway, to Robbie’s pyjamas? 

As he walks back down the stairs, along the hall, he weaves himself a story about how he’ll go back in and they’ll have a glass or two of wine and talk about James’s meeting with Innocent. They’ll talk about the coming week. Maybe James will turn off the ancient turntable. Plug his phone into their speakers and change the music to something Robbie’s never heard before. And he’ll pretend he never wants to hear it again, just to take the piss a bit. Just to hear James protest and explain why Robbie’s wrong. And, eventually, Laura will laugh at the both of them, and Robbie will admit the music’s not that bad.

And later, as Laura scowls, they’ll wander out into the garden so James can have a smoke. If the cloud cover’s not too heavy, they’ll look at the stars. And then Laura will turn on the lights to show James the start they’ve made on that bare corner in the far end of the garden. Maybe they’ll even make plans for James to help them with it next weekend. 

And James won’t sense the mental liberties Robbie’s taken. That _they’ve_ taken. And everything will be like it was, before he thought of James and Laura and him and hands on naked skin and a beautiful masculine body writhing on cool sheets. 

And later, when James has gone, Robbie will tell Laura that he loves her adventurousness, but no more fantasy games about people they know. It’s too discombobulating. Besides, next thing he knows, she’ll be dragging in a fantasy Moody. Or Peterson. Robbie shudders. That thought’s enough to cool anybody’s ardour. And to stop his thoughts chasing round and round. 

But when he gets back to the living room, his rest-of-the-evening scenario disintegrates like a dandelion puff in a strong breeze. James isn’t slouching in his usual spot over by the window. He’s thrown his coat and tie into the chair in which he normally sits, rolled up his sleeves, exposing his tanned forearms. And he’s sitting next to Laura on the couch. She still has all the cushions piled up between her and the arm on her end, which leaves only a portion of the far cushion, the one on which they just had sex, for Robbie. 

Robbie hesitates, feeling silly and awkward and shy. Unsure whether he should take James’s usual place in the chair or squeeze in next to James. The spot is no smaller than any other he’s occupied on a couch with James through the years. They’ve never been prone to spread out when they were sitting together. But that space seems very tight just now. 

Laura smiles brightly and points to the end of the couch. “Come have a snack,” she says. 

And sure enough, there’s a plate on the table in front of James with haphazardly placed triangles of cheese and the small square crackers Robbie prefers. Laura’s holding a bowl of strawberries in her lap. 

Robbie slips around the table and sits. His hip touches James’s hip as he settles. And when James leans to pick up a glass of wine and hand it to him, his whole upper arm comes to rest along Robbie’s. Warmth seeps through the layers of Robbie’s robe and pyjamas, a pleasant, shivery contrast to the coolness of the wine glass. 

James doesn’t seem to notice. 

Laura turns sideways on the couch, facing them, and draws her feet up. Reaches back to adjust the cushions so that they support her back. She slips her feet up under James’s thigh and settles back. 

James notices, but doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles at her and his hand rests lightly across her bare ankles for a moment before sliding away. 

Robbie almost chokes and has to right his glass quickly to keep from spilling wine down his front. Until that light caress, he’s never noted that Laura and James are as comfortable touching each other as he and James are. When did that happen? And why has he never paid attention to it before? 

James looks at him and tilts his head a little. Gives him a questioning quirk of his lips that says he knows something’s up, and he’s trying to figure it out. 

Robbie looks away as if he doesn’t see it. 

And James lets it go. He grabs a piece of cheese and a sliver of cracker. Munches it, sips his wine, then settles back. His arse slides towards the edge of the sofa, and his shoulder and upper arm slide in against Robbie’s and stay there. James shifts a bit more then drops his head back on the couch, settling into his usual slouching sit, resting back like his big head is too heavy for his slender neck. His legs are so long and the table is so close that he has to spread his knees to fit, and it makes his thigh ride up against Robbie’s. 

And the feeling’s _so_ familiar, so comfortable, that it’s a shock. Robbie has to lean forward, reach for a bit of cheese and cracker, to give himself time to relax. To keep from overthinking something that they’ve always done. 

Laura bites the tip off a strawberry. The juice stains her lips a shiny, wet red. 

The sweet, sticky scent teases Robbie’s nose, and his first thought is how lovely and sexy it would be to kiss the juice off her lips. James sniffs the air, too, and Robbie wonders if James is thinking about strawberry-flavoured Laura kisses. 

James wiggles against him, getting comfortable. “This is nice, ” he says, his voice lazy and relaxed. 

Then there’s a long, easy silence while Laura eats strawberries and James slithers forward to grab crackers, then settles back. And lifts his head to sip wine, then settles back. 

Every movement is a gentle bump against Robbie’s knee, an exaggerated caress along his arm and thigh that leaves him breathless and warm. Incongruously alert and aware and relaxed, all at the same time. Nerves tingling as he anticipates the next touch. Mind jangling as he tries not to allow his imagination to run wild and screaming. 

James finishes his wine and holds out his glass for Robbie to refill it. “So… what have you two been doing?” 

Laura tilts her head to the side, questions Robbie with a raised eyebrow and her bright blue gaze. 

Robbie swallows. He thinks he knows what she’s asking him. And, amazingly, his instinct is to nod. But that’s an impulse reaction, ill-considered, and his neck muscles freeze and refuse to move his head. Because this is all going too fast. Because it’s not that simple, is it, as just saying what he’s thinking, just revealing what he’s feeling. No matter what Laura says about how James looks at him. 

What if she’s wrong? How would James look at him then, if she’s wrong? If he, himself, is wrong? 

And what if they’re not wrong? What if James says yes? Then what? A one-off? A hard focus performance of all the fantasies that have flitted through his head, and then they go their separate ways? He isn’t the sort. And James isn’t the sort. Robbie knows that, without having to even think about it. And what he and James have…it doesn’t lend itself to that, does it? James is…special. What Robbie feels is…special. James’s friendship…it’s one of the most important of his life. So what if they do this thing, whatever it is, and it all goes wrong? 

Is bringing that soft-edged, grainy fantasy into sharp focus worth the risk? He’s never been much of a one to take risks. He’s always thought of himself as more of a plodder. The type who pushes on, maybe with his head up and his eyes open, but...thoughtful and steady. And in the midst of all the plodding doubt, heavy and grey as low storm clouds, a soft, hopeful, breathless voice slips in, intruding, blocking his questions, breaking through like a ray of bright, shining sun… _But what if it all goes right?_

Robbie can’t help himself. He looks at James. A flash of heat washes up his back. 

And still he hesitates. What they’ve already said and done has already changed everything. In his head, in his heart. In his imagination. But his answer will change everything in reality. It’s just a matter of how far he wants the change to go. How much he’s willing to risk. Longing wells up, hot and thick, at the back of his throat. 

He knows what he wants. And it seems insane, considering that this morning, he didn’t know he wanted it. Considering that he doesn’t know how reaching for what he wants will end up. 

He looks at James again. At the awkward, elegant line of his profile. Closes his eyes and feels the press of James’s arm against his own, the warmth of James’s knee against his. The absolute rightness of James sitting beside him. 

He takes a deep breath and nods to himself, testing the movement of his neck as if that, and not the peace that’s settled into his heart, will tell him the right way to go. When his muscles respond, loose and easy, he opens his eyes and meets Laura’s gaze. He nods. 

Laura smiles at him across James. “We were just discussing our plans for the future,” she says. "And you." 

And James turns his head without lifting it, first towards her, then back towards Robbie. He smiles. Not his usual, thin-lipped, slightly sarcastic smile. A sweet, relaxed, open smile. “Tell me,” he says.  
  


###  
  



End file.
